


Happy Birthday, Malcolm Tucker

by Britpacker



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Birthday Sex, Episode Related, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having escaped Radio 5 Live, Malcolm finally gets to celebrate his 50th in style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, Malcolm Tucker

**Author's Note:**

> He never specified whose home Sam was supposed to get off to, did he?

“Thanks, pal; tell the minister I appreciate her letting me borrow you.” She’d still be chuntering, making a twat of herself to the mercifully tiny audience with nothing better to do at an ungodly hour than to listen to a pair of no-mark shit politicians on the radio. If they could keep her idiocy limited to such a minority market, Malcolm considered, their chances at the next election would improve markedly.

There again, Peter Mannion M.P. hadn’t exactly covered himself with glory. _Every cloud and all that shite_ , he thought, his sagging spirits lifted a tad by the satisfying clunk of key turning in lock.

“Well hello there, Birthday Boy. I was beginning to think we’d have to celebrate another day.”

“I thought I told you to go home.”

He couldn’t help it. Even before she stepped out of the unlit lounge, her long hair flowing over shoulders left bare by the spaghetti straps of her flimsy satin-and-lace nightgown Malcolm was smiling, the short hairs at his nape beginning to prickle pleasantly. He might have known how she’d take that particular instruction.

“Ah, but you didn’t specify whose, did you?” The burgundy garment whispered around her ankles with every small step she took and he remained frozen, powerless against her obvious intent as she approached him, the tip of her tongue making a slow circuit of plump lips that left them with an irresistible glisten. “I was hoping you’d be home sooner, but…”

“Did you no’ hear that brainless bint on the radio?”

“ _Please_ don’t spoil the mood, Malcolm. It’s always harder to seduce you when you’re getting yourself into a tizzy.”

The understatement, combined with a sudden sly twist of those delectable lips, had an immediate effect, lightening the dark edge of his mood even against Malcolm’s considerable force of will. “Is that what you’re doing?” he murmured, bringing up his arms to encircle her in a light embrace that merely brushed their bodies and yet was still enough to ignite a fire in the pit of his stomach. Sam smothered her chuckle against the side of his neck.

Deliberately she scraped her teeth across his jugular. Malcolm’s knees weakened instantaneously. “Fuck!”

“You have far too many clothes on.” 

His lip curled. Careless, Malcolm shucked out of his expensive black coat and let it fall forgotten to the floor. “Then maybe you should do something about that?”

“It’s _your_ birthday. You should be unwrapping the presents.”

His hands, large and warm, curved around her shoulders. “Sounds like a good idea, but I did that this morning.”

The small bottle of his usual aftershave wrapped in a patterned silk tie. The elegant silver cufflinks engraved with the Lion Rampant of Scotland. Nothing flashy; nothing foolish. Small items nobody else would notice, but which meant everything to him; and to her.

“This is your real present.” Her mouth claimed his, possessive and powerful, demanding his response and his unquestioning submission. Malcolm Tucker, the least submissive man of his acquaintance, gave it without hesitation.

Her hands roved over him, expertly separating him from his steel-grey designer armour. He lingered over reciprocating, relishing the slide of satin between her curves and the flat of his hands, the way she shivered and sighed, pressing herself into his touch. “Bed?” he suggested, forcing the word out through an ever-tightening throat.

“Bed.” His shirt hit the bottom stair behind them and Sam took advantage of being one step above to lean down, one hand under his chin to hold him ready for her devouring kiss. “There’s still an hour of your birthday left.”

“I wish you’d stop fuckin’ mentioning that.” Not that fifty felt old anymore. Nor did celebrating seem such a lousy fucking idea. Lowering the straps of her silly, flimsy little nightdress, letting his palms ghost down the rounded softness of her arms it seemed so natural, so _right_ , that Malcolm couldn’t remember why he had fought the idea in the first place. Sam laced her fingers through his, lightly tugging him toward the bedroom.

Her gown hit the floor in the doorway. His trousers landed on top, his smart black shoes staying caught within them as he toed his way out. Sam’s mouth twitched.

“Allow me,” she cooed, urging him into a sitting position on the end of the bed before sinking to the floor before him, bare breasts bobbing seductively against his knees. He’d never realised the kneecap could count as an erogenous zone.

There again, his Sam could make even the most notorious passion-killer of them all – the removal of the male sock – into a small seduction, gently rolling the material down one foot at a time, delicately tonguing the exposed skin in feathery swirls. By the time both were off Malcolm was flat on his back almost swooning with delight, completely captivated by the sensations spiralling up his legs. 

She loved having him like this, helpless under her touch. That small corner of his mind still functioning tried to curse her, to shake him out of his torpor but her hands were everywhere, her mouth tormenting, and dear God it felt so fucking good to let somebody else do the work for a change!

She felt his final surrender and smiled broadly before nipping the tender flesh of his inner thigh. Even now it was rare for him to drop his guard so completely, trust her quite so implicitly. Sam rose and straddled his lean body, careful not to brush any especially sensitised portion of his anatomy while swinging her hair forward to trail across his chest the way that always made him shiver. “Liking your birthday present?” she whispered.

“Mmmm.”

Shorn of his ferocious eloquence and moving restlessly under her direction he was gorgeous, far too perfect for the teasing she had planned. Gently Sam cupped his balls in her hands, rolling them as they tightened against his body. “I’ve been wanting you all day, you know,” she breathed, uncertain how much he was understanding but needing to tell him all the same. His eyelashes fluttered.

Eyes all dark, liquid pupil wandered hazily over her face. “Got me now,” he gasped, his long fingers curling into the sheets while he fought his body’s urge to buck into her warmth. Sam sighed, letting her hand glide up the velvet-sheathed length of his cock.

“So I have,” she agreed, shuffling until her folds could part around the slickened head. Malcolm’s lashes fluttered again, a small, tight smile forming on his kiss-bruised lips. Stretching forward she caught his wrists, pinning them at his sides as she sank down, ever-so-slowly, forcing them both to savour the stretch of her walls around him.

“Jesus!” The heat around him, the friction of her beautiful body, the sight of her rearing over him, head thrown back, eyes half closed as she engulfed him, was almost more than Malcolm could bear. He ground his teeth together hard, swamped by the onslaught of sensation rolling through him, and even then he couldn’t hold back the strangled moan that surged up into his throat. Sam rode him hard and fast, her bruising grip on his wrists an erotic counterpoint, a pinprick of pain to focus on, to prolong the rising pleasure. Never in all his fifty years had Malcolm Tucker felt quite so good.

Her muscles rippled around him. Stars burst inside his head, the pressure in his balls going critical. Caught up in a hot storm of bliss Malcolm shuddered, sighed and came like an express train while Sam squirmed to her completion above him, his name a ragged cry through the dark. 

Her soft weight crumpled onto him, her breath moist and uneven against his ear. Without any guidance from his addled brain Malcolm’s arms flopped around her, holding her close while the wider world stopped spinning and coherent cogitation became an imminent possibility. “Jesus, woman!” he rumbled, barely recognising his own voice. 

Sam stirred, raising her heavy head to bestow the sweetest of sleepy smiles. “Happy birthday, Malcolm,” she said again, daring him to protest. 

He chuckled, arching his shoulders off the bed to meet her lips in a whispery kiss. “Yeah,” he agreed, dim-witted ministers and arseholes with mobiles in Ruislip all forgotten. 

Soon, he’d draft that fucking statement; get it out for breakfast news, then break the bollocks of whichever Party prick had accepted a donation without checking its fucking source. But not yet.

A man deserved a bit of downtime on his fiftieth, after all.


End file.
